Turf War
by Captain Fracas
Summary: Moff Jerjerrod has overstepped his bounds, and General Veers has had it. Slightly AU, Veers continued to live and got to keep his legs after Hoth.


16:00: General Veers had had enough."This way, men." Veers marched through the Executor's halls with twenty of his best soldiers in tow. They would reach the moff's quarters in exactly fifteen minutes.

The general had learned to tolerate arrogance over the years, but there was something particularly grating about Jerjerrod. He wasn't simply intelligent and aware of it – in fact, if he actually had the brains to match his godawful demeanor, Veers probably would have let it slide – but Jerjerrod had a habit of lording this perceived brilliance (and, indeed, his very presence) over everyone who crossed his path. Veers wasn't sure how he survived encounters with Lord Vader.

For three days now the moff had been tramping about the ship as if he owned it, and Piett's reserved nature wasn't allowing him to do enough for the general's tastes. If the admiral had his way, they would simply have to sit and wait it out. Veers had had enough of waiting.

He halted them just around the corner and crept forward, standard uniform allowing him more stealth than the troops' armor. Tiptoeing ahead, he checked the surroundings.

The halls were deserted. Excellent.

Ever so carefully he put his ear to the alusteel door, listening intently.

Nothing but silence on the other side.

Veers grinned mischievously. "Perfect." He straightened up and gave a very soft whistle. His men darted around the corner in response. Jauntily pulling a code cylinder from his pocket, Veers threw open the door and gestured his men inside. He followed just behind, sealing the door tight.

XXXXXXX

19:00: Admiral Piett was also less than satisfied with the moff and his unruly behavior, and he was on his way down to Jerjerrod's quarters with every intention of fixing the issue. Evidently, he needed to lay some ground rules. Unless they'd unwittingly slipped into the Quanta sector, (several light years away, by his calculations) he wasn't taking orders from anyone but Lord Vader, save his majesty himself. He was about ten feet up the hallway from the moff's room when he heard the crash. Wide eyed, he hurried the rest of the way and quickly knocked on the door. "Moff Jerjerrod are you alright?"

Everything inside was still.

"Moff Jerjerrod?"

Nothing but silence.

Fearing the man had fallen and hit his head, the admiral whipped a code cylinder out from his pocket and watched the door slide open.

Twenty stormtroopers and a general stared wide-eyed back at him.

Piett blinked a few times as he tried to sort out just what was going on. Half of the troopers were planted firmly on the ground. The other half was perched precariously atop their shoulders. He slowly turned to look to the general, who was standing on the moff's desk chair, a seat from the dining table upside down in his arms.

"Evening admiral, is there something I can do for you?"

"You may begin by telling me what precisely you are doing in Moff Jerjerrod's quarters."

"Having a bit of sport, chap."

"What are you doing up on that chair?"

"Gluing this one to the ceiling."

"You're doing what?"

"I'm gluing this chair to the ceiling."

The admiral paused a moment and raised an eyebrow disapprovingly. "What for?"

Veers stuck the chair defiantly to the ceiling and held it there while he turned his gaze pointedly back to Piett. "Because you're not doing enough."

He raised the other eyebrow. "I don't see how my failure to act elicits the vandalism of Moff Jerjerrod's quarters."

"Someone's got to teach him what he can and cannot do around here. Consider it a bit of...territoriality on our part, a sort of...turf war, if you will."

"General..."

"If you won't take back control of this vessel, Piett then I will-"

"While we are on the subject, general, I'm sure you're perfectly well aware of just how many regulations you've broken on this little escapade of yours."

"Admiral I-"

"General, as the highest ranking naval officer aboard this ship, I am ordering you and your men out the moff's quarters at once."

The men, keeping one eye on Piett, all turned to their general, waiting for their orders. It was only one man; they could simply rush him, take his code cylinders and shut the door again: no mess, no hassle.

Veers kept his eyes locked on the diminutive admiral for a long moment, considering his next move very carefully. Finally he buckled. "Alright, men, you heard the him. Out you come."

A few of the very youngest let out small groans of discontent.

"That's enough," he chided. "Just get out."

The troopers left silently. Their general remained stationary.

Piett stared him down, waiting. "I believe I said you _and_ your men, general."

"I can't. I'm busy."

"General..."

"Do you want this to fall down and hit you in the head? It's not ready to stay on its own yet."

"I don't appreciate your defiance, General."

"Few men do, Admiral."

Piett was fighting hard not to bristle.

Veers glanced down to him. "Relax. I think it will stay now. I'll go."

He got down off his desk chair and walked out, fully expecting what was to come.

Except that it didn't.

He stopped and slowly turned back to the admiral. "You're not going to have me take it down?"

Piett turned to him from looking up at his handiwork. "I haven't said anything, have I?"

Veers looked to him in utter confusion, brow furrowed.

The admiral only smirked. "On your way, General." With that he took his leave.

Veers watched him go and very slowly a smile spread across his face, until at last he to took his leave.

Of course, he couldn't go too far. To go too far away would be to miss the excitement entirely.


End file.
